


The Devil and Miss Moseley

by Spn_kink_sock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Friends with the devil, Gen, Platonic Soulmates, Red String
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-25 10:24:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15638823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spn_kink_sock/pseuds/Spn_kink_sock
Summary: https://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/121265.html?thread=43411377#t43411377A fill for the kink meme, but not at all kinky. A gen fill. Who knew I could write that?The original prompt went:AU where you have some type of physical sign showing who your soulmate is (the first thing they say to you written on your arm, matching marks on your body, a string in the air linking the two of them that nobody else can see, etc.), but it's not sexual. Your soulmate is your best friend.The problem is the person isn't always someone you think you'll get along with.I'd love to see soulmate pairings like Dean & Crowley, Sam & Benny, Ruby & Meg, Missouri & Lucifer, etc. Feel free to make it crack, dramatic, or fluff.Canon 'verse except for the soulmate issue, please.





	The Devil and Miss Moseley

He must think she isn't looking because the instant her back is turned, his hand is in the cookie dough. She's much quicker than he thinks because a micro second after that her wooden spoon cracks down on his knuckles, hard. She doesn't hold back. He can take it. 

Still, he pulls back, shaking his hand, saying, "I'm the Adversary. The Prince of Darkness. I do as I please."

"Not in my kitchen you don't," she says, pertly. "Sit your ass down on that stool like I said and wait for them to be done."

***

They're soul mates. Have been for as long as she can remember. Of course, it used to be that he only troubled her dreams. Now, well, those boys had the best of intentions. They always did. They just didn't think through the consequences of things. One of which was that the Devil himself was now cluttering up her house, trying to put his feet up on her coffee table and getting underfoot when she was busy. Whenever he wasn't off doing. Well, that didn't bear thinking about. Why worry about things you can't change and one immutable fact of the universe was your soul mate. 

Her mother always used to say that the Lord never burdened you with more than you could carry. She wondered what her mother would think to see her burdened with the gift of friendship from Satan himself. She tugged at the red thread, invisible to all but him and herself, worrying at it like it was a mosquito bite. Nothing could cut it. Nothing would untie it. Perhaps not even God himself. 

She makes Satan wait, until the timer has gone off, until the cookies had cooled enough. Then she hands him one. 

"One? I'm the Lord of Hell and I get one measly cookie?" He asks. "C'mon, Miz. All of those cookies and I just get one? I'm your soul mate. Doesn't that make us besties?"

"They're for after choir practice," she says, firm as she can manage in the face of his wheedling. That's the only weapon he has that can work on her. As her soul mate, all his terrible powers are nothing to her. She is immune. What a joke the universe has played on her. One person in the universe short of God himself that can withstand his dire wrath and it's a middle aged, sometimes psychic, little woman in Kansas. 

She does the best she can. She hands him a second cookie.

"Choir practice. You know, I know for a fact, my father doesn't pay attention to anything that happens in church. Just doesn't give a shit."

"Watch your tongue in my house," she says, then adds, "No, I expect he doesn't, but that doesn't matter. I love making a joyful noise and having an excuse to wear a pretty hat once a week. That's reason enough."

"Ok, I get the hats thing. People aren't wearing enough hats these days. Sorry. Good cookies, gotta run. I've got the eschaton to immanetize."

***

Later that month, he's back and sitting in her living room. Well, actually, he'd been around all day. Earlier, when she'd been trying to earn her bread, he was behind her, whispering all manner of terrible things about her clients in her ear. How they were going to die. Their little sins and shames. Things she could know easily enough if she choose to look for them. She doesn't want to know these things. They don't want her to know them. They don't want to think of them at all. These people come here because they want good news. They want to know Grandma is happy in the great beyond. They want to know where she hid her diamond ring during her Alzheimer's days.

"Grandma didn't hide it," Satan says to Missouri. "She pawned it back in '99 so she could go on one last trip to the riverboats. She blew it all on penny slots and her friend Louella had to pay for her dinner. Grandma never paid Louella back either. Grandma had that stroke not long after."

No one could see Lucifer but her. She smiled, tried to look beatific, even though she yearned to drive one of her best spike stiletto heels into a certain fallen angel's toes. 

"Your grandmother is resting in the arms of the Lord. She's happy. Her last days before her stroke were spent with her friends, doing what she loved," Missouri said.

"She was miserable old cow."

"And all her earthly cares are past. She wants you know know that you shouldn't look for treasures in this world."

"She hated her daughter Tiffany and all her brats."

At that Missouri turns around and stares Satan down. She can't say a word. It would ruin any atmosphere this trainwreck of a so called seance. Satan knows that look. He has to give her something she can use. His grin quirks up on the left side of his face and he tells her. 

"Your grandmother wanted you to look in the old King James Bible she kept on her kitchen shelf. That's where she put her fudge recipe. She wants you to have that."

***

Later, after she's given Lucifer what for, bothering her at her work like that, they sit down with cups of tea. No one, not a person in existence, would believe her if she told them that Satan likes his tea with milk and honey. He has a real sweet tooth, Lucifer does.

"As it gets closer to time, the more I think I don't want to end the world," he says. "It's kind of a nice place. The cookies are good. There aren't any cookies in hell. Well, there are, but they're made out of ground up teeth of the damned mixed with bile and blood and bits of intestines. So, not really like cookies at all. Just sort of vaguely cookie shaped."

"So, if you don't want to end the world, don't," she says. "You said it before. You're the prince of darkness. You do as you please."

"But Michael," he says.

"But Michael what?"

"You seriously don't have any siblings, do you?"

***

It gets closer and closer to the time that Lucifer tells her that the world is going to end, the time when Armageddon starts. He, somehow, doesn't seem to spend any less time in her living room, sprawling on her sofa, watching marathon episodes of "Judge Judy." But he also still seems to be busier than ever. 

He tells her she shouldn't be afraid. Despite, or maybe because of their soul mate connection, Missouri will be on the express elevator upstairs to Heaven. 

Lucifer is downing a can of Pringles like they're going out of style. It figures that the Lord of Hell would prefer Pringles. She doesn't have the heart to tell him such things aren't allowed in her house. Not too long ago, he told her that her boys, her Sam and Dean, had tracked him down with a certain blessed Colt, that was supposed to take out any creature or person in existence. He claims it didn't even sting. 

"Haven't you got something better to do?" She asks.

"Naw, its all set in motion. It's inevitable. Triumph of hell over heaven, yadda yadda. Rightful end of man kind, blah, blah, blah."

She had come in from the kitchen and was still carrying her wooden spoon. She smacks it down on his knuckles, knocking the Pringles can from his grip.

"Hey! I was eating those," he says.

"Don't you piss on my shoes and tell me its raining," she says. "You don't want this world to end any more than I do."

"It's been set since time immemorial. We all have our roles to play. There's nothing I could do, even if I wanted to. "

"You're the Adversary. The Morning Star. You do as you please."

***

Three weeks later, he comes around again. 

"So those idiots in denim think they've come up with this plan. So get this. Sammy. Cute little puppy dog eyed Sammy thinks he can say yes to me, then take control again just long enough to cast me back into the pit."

"Can't he?" Missouri asks. She knows Sam Winchester. He might look like a floppy haired hippy but the boy has a will of iron, albeit with a heart of pure mush.

"Not a chance," Lucifer said. "But I can make it look like he can. It'll be hard. I'll have to make it look good, like he really did overthrow my will. Or I'll never hear the end of it from Michael and those other stick up their ass jerks."

She doesn't have the heart to scold him for his foul tongue. "But that means you're going back."

"To the pit," he grins ruefully as he says it. "Ah, it's not so bad. Now that I know cable exists, it'll be great. All the time in the world for Game of Thrones marathons."

"Game of What?" She asks. 

"Oh, sorry, I forget time isn't fluid like that for you. Don't you worry your pretty little head about me. The Pit is pretty much home for me. Well, except for this place."

***

She only dreams about him now. She dreams he has terrible taste in decorating. Massive TV over a fireplace that seems like it burns with an intensity of the fires of Hell itself. Big puffy leather recliners, the kind with cup holders built into the arm rest. The TV flickers from one program to the next like the rapid fire of a pulse.

Every now and then, she gives her invisible red thread a tug. The thread trails off her finger and disappears into the distance. She hopes he can feel it, all the way, wherever it is that he is now. 

She isn't going to admit it, not to anyone in this world and almost certainly not in the next, but Missouri misses the Devil in her living room.


End file.
